My Love, She's in America

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The Stillwater Hobos

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Cigarettes in the morning
Walking hallways of this strange empty home
Cold whiskey in the evening
Every day now she's gone

Connemara's on the bus route to Behan
It's seven days since the last cow died
And when the barley's gone and three lost women
Like the girls and boys in Rome used to cry

Just give me cornbread in the morning so early
For you took my rags in the fold of your hand
And before you fall just like a feather and linen
Make sure you've taken off that black velvet band

They say that roving's like a candle at midnight
And some take it like the trot of a mule
But when the road is blind and your own tender lady
You'd take a match to find a firelit fool

How come the way's not like stairs in a castle
With crimson pictures there to guide you along
A gilded bottle with a few draughts inside it
Makes the lights in the rafters look so strong.

When your true love's gone to run like an engine
After nine young women with no faces their own
And in America she spins like a dancer
With barrel straps and some shoes made of stone

I'd guess the porches there are all clouded over
And pipes and fiddles might could use some repair
And all the horses have been broken in stables
And golden fleeces could be worse for the wear

But if you ever come to Clifden by sunset
Just before the Autumn rains touch the shore
To stroll along Cleggan's grey-hooded harbor
Cutting hard like the blade of an oar

You take yourself to a hill past the pierline
To find a cabin of whiskey and milk
Where St. Coleman used to ply to his master
Like colored linen and mulberry silk

Cigarettes in the morning
Walking hallways of this strange empty home
Cold whiskey in the evening
Every day now she's gone

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